


An Angel’s Diary of Truths and Lies

by EdnaV, Just_a_K_really



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Aziraphale's cognitive dissonance should be a character tag, Aziraphale's faith is an important part of his identity and ultimately a force for good, Aziraphale/Aziraphale's stiff upper lip: not a healthy relationship, Canon Compliant, Diary/Journal, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Missing Scene, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), The Cold Open, a lot of missing scenes, and a bit of queer history, and other historical settings, sometimes this fic is a not-very-subtle metaphor about overcoming internalised homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_a_K_really/pseuds/Just_a_K_really
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't lie — he's an angel, after all. But he’s very good at not telling the truth, especially to himself.He’s also very good at finding excuses for how he behaves around Crowley. He's recorded most of them in the diaries that he’s been keeping through the centuries.But sometimes you just have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth — especially to the demon you love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 73
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Prologue: You Can’t Question the Almighty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Do It With Style Mini Bang 2020. That beautiful banner is by Kai, and there’s more art coming soon!
> 
> 6000 years and more of thank you to my betas, [Robyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes) and [Tarek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has... thoughts. Thoughts that might not be allowed. After all, they’re always inspired by a demon.
> 
> He looks for a solution.

[ ](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/R0nFqve7lA6nW3LHyLMEEdU6Vfo3X0HAZDvmht-iH804RKQsnT4nHNmh_Kwx_E_7u5g0kn_zZME276q0q1uqkKcl7TNSyhSY1lxFkgXRLz2LY9eyJP__wQw6BccFYCoBqo5C8l7ea1hos3WTag0PZj7Sp6p4p2c4qOHN1SWrwZ-_lpLex6CFV3Yp60_G-9q2infQVjIC-2htMukMlISAd5fAMn79yjgudl6buSRGLdCN9Q-1jcaePlUDLPrmKgkGuu0LnzNU2hIrf1b_8qvc-ETz7ggrPWFCp0kpaPKBLBRrcBxYGW7lt1-nmKPQmDrj9Z9zcMUisw-o9SbZmDkCmJLKhwDeSGuchW79crxlTFQh-smJDA4ikFBgvT440zU6GK-ytIB9qQUIlTx_gecOe4QmqXRQ3pr6YrN_hqO-kixzTDl1tfvsGCY4vMkLi95HbC3NA2x2E1X-4U_xbbw3pr_LNENenwFAIdyIWfdzZefk7BhDTCvMaC39SFbQkulHObrem6M4TvbFbV-5VuavY9iXI1eEXpugeA0MLmK0dL2c_diPEtn3to1jKbpquSDruSTj0GDUa19aG5SlsLm8jN66Xn6k_2bkVvsgwI8C-2x5liDLhKnLPufGvJQpg1zMtdxtQvdmo28mkfVodNdM9B7YFO8ORtIKitgaxmeBj129lPa3EI1vlSNPHsn_D7ewsg2V=w1964-h1832-ft)

The Ark has been floating for ten days, and Aziraphale is still seasick. 

He’s been sitting in that same corner since he received the order to get aboard and take care of any problems that may arise, be it broken bones or stowaways. 

He’s done his best. He couldn’t recognise a couple of children that seemed to be hiding next to the snakes’ cage; but Noah’s family is very large, so he might’ve forgotten a face or two.

_ Everything will be fine,  _ Aziraphale repeats to himself, trying to calm his upset stomach.  _ Even if human beings might sometimes err, everything will go according to Her Plan. _ And he’s going to be there to nudge them on the right path. 

That is his assignment on Earth, after all: to help humans. To encourage Her children to do their best, and to foil the schemes of the Enemy. 

The Enemy. That is, Crawly. 

Aziraphale remembers his first meeting with Crawly with his perfect angelic memory. He was standing guard on the Wall of Eden, and the Serpent had decided to pay a social visit. He still doesn’t know what left him more bemused: a demon not fearing a guardian angel, or that an angel could find himself chit-chatting with a demon. Confessing that he’d given away his sword, even!  _ Maybe that was a bit reckless. _ He remembers God’s voice asking him what he had done with the sword. But it’s not long before his thoughts turn back to the demon.

Their paths have crossed a few more times in the following centuries. The first time was in Damascus: Crawly told him that he’d been given the job to tempt humans as a reward for what he did in the Garden. In Aleppo, he convinced Aziraphale to try food, “if only to keep up the appearance of being human.” In Erbil, they had a pleasant debate about what Crawly called “this stupid obsession with gender.”

The last time they met was ten days ago. The debate wasn’t pleasant. It involved the death of innocent children, and the possibility that this wouldn’t be the last genocide.

_ You can’t question the Almighty,  _ he’d said. Of course, he was going to stand by that. He’s an angel of the Lord. 

But Crawly’s words keep on bothering him. He cannot help thinking. 

God’s Plan is perfect, but after all he doesn’t take his order from God Herself, but from the Archangels. Of course, they try to choose the best course of actions but they’re not the Almighty Herself...

Aziraphale wonders if he’s thinking too much. He wonders if his thoughts are allowed. He wonders if they’re dangerous.

_ Is it possible for an angel to have thoughts that border on doubts? _ If it’s impossible, why aren’t they leaving him alone? If it’s possible, how can he stop thinking them?

How do you unthink a thought?

_ Maybe writing these things down will help. Maybe it will allow me to see with more clarity. _

Eventually, the land dries. Noah, his family, every animal and every person who was on the Ark set forth to build a new world.

Aziraphale buys a scroll of papyrus and a tiny brush, and he sits at his desk, ready to turn unsettling ideas into comforting words. 

He can’t help wondering if he’ll ever write about meeting with Crawly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Aethelflaed for the information about writing implements in the antiquity!
> 
> In the next chapter: a few entries in Aziraphale’s diary. There will be oysters, and an Arrangement.


	2. Your Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a tavern in Rome, Aziraphale does something unexpected. 
> 
> A few centuries later, Heaven’s side seems the best place to be. 
> 
> Aziraphale’s meeting with the Black Knight makes him wonder about God’s plans. 
> 
> An Arrangement is sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first entry in Aziraphale’s diary follows the Roman calendar, which counts the years from the founding of Rome (21st April 753 BC). It corresponds to the 1st of March, 41 A.D.

####  **From the Daily Considerations of Philosophical Nature by the Principality Aziraphale, Heaven's Envoy on Earth**

* * *

####  **_Rome, Kal. Mart. 793 A.U.C._ **

Once again, Heaven’s instructions are more an honour than a burden: I was entrusted with the crucial task of influencing a boy of the Imperial family. I am pleased to say that my short speech about music as a way to improve one’s soul and transform the world into a new and better one didn’t take long to exert its beneficial effect: apparently the boy has already asked for a lyre!

My success left me with some time to rest, and I hoped to test if Petronius’ new “secret recipe” for oysters lives up to the fame that it’s gained so rapidly. As it was too early for a proper dinner, but too late to walk all the way back to my rooms on the Caelian Hill, I chose to wait at Gaia’s tavern.

I was savouring some scrumptious olives and meditating on a riddle (is it possible to play against oneself in a game of noughts and crosses?) when the demon who prompted my habit of keeping these notes drifted into the room and took a seat at the counter. He was clearly of foul mood, so much that he didn’t even notice me.

Our meetings so far have always followed the same pattern: I am trying to carry on my duties as a true warrior of the Lord, he appears right behind me, and before long he is trying to instil doubt in my mind with his sweet words and rude questions; but this time it was different. This time, I was the one who went on the offensive, so to speak. 

I don’t know why I did that: maybe an angelic inspiration to make the world a better place for everyone, even for a demon? Anyway, soon he was smiling again. And all it took was a silly joke that came to me in the spur of the moment: I said that I was “tempting” him to come with me to Petronius’! In another depart from his usual behaviour, he didn’t say many words, but he just stared at me with an amused expression. 

In any case, he decided to follow me. He also replied to my little joke by calling me “angel”: curiously enough, this reminder of our different natures didn’t make me feel farther from him, but closer. At Petronius’, he emptied a few bottles of excellent Falernum wine, but he left me half of his platter of oysters, saying that “company can be food enough”. It was truly as if I was tempting him, but into being generous!

As we were leaving the place, he proposed to try the new thermae. He also slurred something along the lines of “I don’t want this night to end, angel”, but I could be mistaken. Of course I couldn’t but accept his invitation, since he had so kindly accepted mine. As at Gaia’s, he didn’t talk much, but he stared at me; though that contraption that he was using to shield his eyes made it almost impossible for me to fully understand what was going on in his mind.

* * *

####  **_Rome, 29th October 313 A.D._ **

A commendation! My work in inspiring the Emperor’s conversion before the great battle has not gone unappreciated!

I didn’t fully understand Sandalphon’s speech about “weeding out the pagans” and “humans smiting themselves”, but I’m certain that, as Gabriel said, “we are headed for new exciting times of triumph.” It is truly the right time to be an angel of the Lord.

I cannot help noticing that Crowley wasn’t anywhere on the battlefield. I wonder if that’s because his side has underestimated the importance of this moment, or he’s simply lazing around somewhere.

* * *

####  **_Camelot, 6th October 537 A.D._ **

It is with a heavy heart that I file my latest report: alas, my quest for the Black Knight was a failure! The Knight revealed himself to be none other than my old foe, Crowley. 

We only fought with words, as per our usual: we both know that getting either of us discorporated won’t lead to anything but paperwork. If I recall correctly I was the first one to remark that, due to my angelic aversion for needless violence. Naturally, being a demon, Crowley found in my words a way to give in to sin — more precisely, to sloth: he proposed that we help each other to shrink away from our duties. Needless to say, I refused.

But I cannot help noticing that our paths keep on crossing, even if our swords are not: is it Her Hand that leads us to meet each other over and over again? Is this a challenge, a tournament that will go on through the ages? I have no doubt that I am ready to rise to the occasion. 

Or maybe this will be the last time I see him: one can never know what the Lords of Hell might dictate to their subjects. I pity Crowley, it must be so hard to be bound to such ruthless and cruel superiors...

* * *

####  **_Padua, 5th April 1020 A.D._ **

We did not sign our names, nor we marked a document with our sigils. No witnesses either: we were alone in that grove, and the moon was our only light. But we shook hands and shared some wine that he’d brought, which is a ritual of sorts; and so our Arrangement is sealed.

Of course, before rushing in such a pact, I have analysed the issue of a deal with the devil. But I’m an angel, it is not possible for me to act against Her will; this should quell any doubt I might have. And it also stands to reason that it was the best course of action: I will make sure that the Adversary’s requests will be carried out in name only, while forcing a demon to do good deeds. Isn’t that a true marvel? I thwarted his temptations, and obtained a victory for my side!

Indeed, I have been right not to smite Crowley but to become almost his confidant: finally our meetings will no longer be an idle pleasure but will have a proper purpose, one that will help the Cause of Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 313 A.D. entry refers to the Battle of the Milvian Bridge and the conversion of Emperor Constantine to Christianity. It didn’t take long to go from the persecution of Christians to the persecution of anyone who wasn’t a Christian. For once, Sandalphon is right: human beings are very good at killing each other in the name of a God...
> 
> In the next chapter: Aziraphale’s reasons to meet Crowley might include idle earthly pleasures, and even something more...


	3. Peckish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a banquet at the court of King John, a demonic lady is truly charming.
> 
> While helping Crowley in one of his darkest hours, Aziraphale realises that he cares very much for his friend.
> 
> Hamlet is a success, but Crowley manages to find two tickets anyway.
> 
> An adventure in Paris delights Aziraphale, who muses about temptation, friendship, and love. Angelic love, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played a bit fast and loose with historical accuracy, but there are a couple of details in the endnotes.
> 
> Once again, thanks to my beta Robyn and Tarek!

####  **From the Chronicles of the Principality Aziraphale**

* * *

####  **_Runnymede, 17th June 1215_ **

Is Crowley trying to annoy me on purpose? “You won’t recognise me, I shall recognise you,” he said. I feared that a terrible evil had befallen him! But I’d recognise his corporation anywhere, and in any gender: since when do we care for such human distinctions?

Or maybe he wanted to surprise me with the gracefulness of his bearing. I am, of course, referring only to his exterior appearance: as a demon, he’s as far from Grace as possible! But if that had been the case, indeed I was astonished: such poise! He was mingling with the ladies of King John’s court; and not for the first time I was glad that we can walk among humans without being noticed by them. Crowley was wise to make sure that no-one (that is, no-one but me) felt anything more than a vague sensation of his presence: more than a lady would’ve been jealous of his beauty, more than a lord could’ve challenged me for the honour to return the handkerchief that had fallen from his hands. Crowley told me to keep it, and that he’d embroidered it himself, so I wonder if it holds any secret code; but I cannot discern anything but a fine needlework, elegant and devoid of any excessive flourish. 

Of course, I was always on guard, worrying that he’d been charged with planting seeds of discord at such a momentous occasion; but he told me that he’d proposed to meet there, and a few months before the usual date, only because the food was bound to be good. And even if caution is always necessary when dealing with a demon, I believe him: perhaps because the banquet was nothing short of magnificent. 

In the end, we spent yet another pleasant night together: we enjoyed the feast, we observed the people around us. We didn’t dare to dance. I joked about how I always seem to enjoy the food more than he does, and he’s more inclined than me to muse on people’s lives and how “this Free Will thing, that’s a bugger”.

But, of course, this was first and foremost a business meeting. A few times I wondered if in calling this meeting he had something more in mind than Arranging our assignments for the following months, but it is hard to discern anything behind those dark lenses except that his gaze is truly piercing; and after all we did discuss our plans for the year to come. Granted, there wasn’t much to trade: he is going to bless that nun in Italy (lovely girl, quite headstrong, I pray that he will not make a scandal); I am going to tempt a young boy into becoming a priest instead of a lawyer (a curious temptation indeed: I could even report it as a spur-of-the-moment blessing to the Office). 

* * *

####  **_Seville, 22nd October 1483_ **

Crowley is still in my bed, but he’s finally recovering: and thanks be to the Lord, as his pain was breaking my heart. I tried to tell myself that he is the Enemy, a demon, condemned to eternal suffering; but a voice inside me kept on replying that I am an angel, bound to love every being that ever was created.

He’s told me how he ended up drunk in that gutter: his superiors gave him a commendation for inspiring Fray Torquemada’s Inquisition, and he loathes that institution more than words can tell. This should not come as a shock, given that the goal of the Tribunal is to weed out heresy, and that in turn should make a Tempter’s job harder; but the reason of Crowley’s hatred sounds extraordinary for a demon:  _ he likes human beings. _

I cannot dare to say that he  _ loves _ them, given his infernal nature; but the sense of wonder that he expresses for their creativity and of the power of their imagination is something that might almost be love. Regardless of the name one might choose for it, it’s enough for him to feel pain at the sight of the Inquisitors’ methods of questioning, of the death sentences and the public humiliation of the auto de fe. He says that even in Hell he has never seen such cruelty, which explains the words he kept on repeating when, in his drunken stupor, he was begging me not to sober him up with a miracle: “let me be human, they are doing my job”. 

And so, once again, a conversation with Crowley has left me slightly discombobulated; but this time, it was not just his ideas or his wit: it was just him. I’d never seen him so helpless; I would’ve given anything to take away the horrors that plagued his mind... But I could do nothing but pray. 

I wonder what She made of an angel begging Her to bless a demon. But it shouldn’t be too unexpected: we angels cannot but love all of Her creation, and I suppose that it’s only natural to feel a stronger affinity for someone with whom one has shared so many pleasant moments, and a few sorrows. Indeed, it makes sense that I wish I could do more to grant him joy, as his joy is mine as if I were one with him...

I have to go now — I hear him calling my name from the other room.

* * *

####  **_London, 5th July 1601_ **

I returned from Edinburgh less than a day ago, and I’ve already heard the latest from Southwark: Hamlet is a success, through and through. 

And as soon as I set foot in my study I heard the latest from North of the River as well: I found on my desk a note from Crowley, asking me to see the play with him. Truly, just the prospect of time spent in good company is a powerful thing: with every word, the weariness from my journey disappeared, as if it had been but an illusion. 

How can a small detour on an already-planned journey compensate for such a gift? Crowley made it sound like his miracle was nothing more than a trifle; and maybe it is: it’s just a play, a story that never was and never will be. And yet the simple idea of watching his lips be turned into a smile by Will’s great work fills me with joy beyond compare.

But now: off to write our reports; a little price of boredom for the excitement of the hours to come!

* * *

####  **_London, 20th October 1793_ **

My dear Crowley has walked me to the bookshop’s door, as if I needed to be protected; he even sent the carriage away to cover for his excuse of “just wishing to take a stroll”. I wonder if he was hoping to see the bookshop: but he will have to wait until it’s in a better state. And he will have to wait until I recover from the excitement of the past week, of course. 

The journey back from Paris was pleasant. Chattering away with Crowley is always guaranteed to turn even the direst moments into lovely memories: my little adventure in Paris can testify to that. I will never forget my elation at hearing his voice in that ghastly place; I hoped to escape without being discorporated, I managed to have the best crêpes of my life; and then the most delightful lunch at Le Procope, not to mention some wonderful champagne when we went back to his lodgings. Truly, everything is better when it’s shared with my dear Crowley! Especially as it seems as though my company is as pleasant to him as his is to me...

I have to confess that at times I was overcome by thoughts that were, in a way, inappropriate. Crowley’s attire followed the latest fashion, of course, and I could not help noticing how those horrid trousers would be unflattering on anyone, but made him look absolutely dashing. I could not help looking at his figure, and consider that he is, indeed, very handsome. In short, I was tempted to give in to Lust; to the point that I wondered if the pleasure of his company could turn into a more sensual one. But, thank goodness, it was but a fleeting moment. 

This goes to show that what I’ve been saying since Rome is true: we joke that I’m tempting Crowley, but temptation is truly his trade, and one at which he excels, to the point that I somehow admire him for being so good at his demonic work! I wonder if keeping up my side of the Arrangement colours my judgement, but ultimately I believe that it’s simply the affection that comes from our friendship, which is nothing but an angelic expression of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magna Charta was signed in Runnymede on the 15th June 1215. Yes, Aziraphale and Crowley got really drunk. The idea of setting a scene in Runnymede comes from [Long Is The Way, And Hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345675) by Kate_Lear, one of my favourite fics. The Italian nun may or may not be St Clare of Assisi. 
> 
> The Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, also known as the Spanish Inquisition, was established in 1478; the Dominican friar Tomás de Torquemada was one of its most fervent advocates and was nominated Grand Inquisitor in 1483.
> 
> The Globe Theatre was in Southwark, on the south bank of the Thames; the river marks the boundary with the (much more respectable) City of London.
> 
> Next chapter: Aziraphale worries about _fraternising._


	4. Fraternising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley seem to grow apart. 
> 
> And then they fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for skipping one week - life got in the way. But now we’re back, ready for some angst...
> 
> You can read about some historical characters that my Good Omens universe shares with ours in the endnotes. One of these lives was destroyed by homophobia and persecution, so: be prepared.
> 
> Once again, this chapter wouldn’t exist without my betas robynthemagpie, Tarek and [nemnemz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemnemz)...

####  **From the Personal Notes of the Principality Aziraphale**

####  **_9th of December, 1805, 9 o’clock in the morning_ **

I wonder what’s happening to Crowley. His whole demeanour has changed so much since the turn of the century, and not for the best. Since the day I received my commendation, he’s been acting as if we were under constant surveillance. I tried to reassure him— but to no avail. He seems afraid to even glance at me; when he does, I can sense behind those dark lenses a curious gaze— I cannot find the words to describe it, but it has a peculiar effect on me—

* * *

**_17th of July, 1833, 11 o’clock in the morning_ **

I wonder why Crowley didn’t tell me that he was going to be at Mr Babbage’s party. His musing about the consequences of introducing our host to Miss Gordon was interesting, as usual (his detailed retelling of his friendship with Miss Gordon’s father was less so — we all are aware of that man’s proclivities, and I’d rather not think of how he and Crowley spent their week in a hotel room in Venice). But the idea that he didn’t discuss his assignment with me is slightly distressing: it’s the twenty-second time this has happened in the past thirty years, and I cannot fathom what might’ve caused it. I worry about him more and more, with every passing day: he seems to avoid me even when he looks for ways to spend time with me.

I’m starting to fear that my commendation reminded him of my allegiance to Heaven. I suppose that this is a fact that I will have to remember as well: the more I consider the past centuries, I realise that my relationship with Crowley has led me to be amiss in my angelic duties. Maybe his coldness will be a blessing in disguise .

* * *

####  **_Christmas Day 1850, six o’clock in the evening_ **

Such a beautiful Christmas Mass in St Anne's! And I could not help wishing that Crowley could have been there with me. An idle fantasy: no matter how much I love my dear friend, leading a demon to enter a church is beyond my powers: She has seen fit for things to be like this, and I can but try to obey Her will. In this spirit that I try not to think too often about Crowley’s Fall, not just because the simple idea of the pain that he must have suffered makes me wish I could heal him, just as I helped him so many years ago in that room in Seville.

* * *

####  **_14th of May, 1862, 11 o’clock in the morning_**

to meet him at noon in St James’s Park, and to burn the note. This latter request worries me, especially given the state of his nerves after the rumor of an “internal audit” that he mentioned the other afternoon with more than a hint of fear in his voice.

Whatever it is, I cannot blame him: I know that his side is ruthless; just as I know how lucky I am to still be on the right side of Her Grace.

* * *

####  **_4 o’clock in the afternoon_ **

How could C— I can’t even bring myself to  _ think _ of his name. How could he dare—

I must try to remain  _ compos mentis.  _ This is the journal of a respectable Angel of the Lord, not the letter that a silly girl in love writes to her young friend.

I went to the meeting. Crowley was already there; he didn’t even greet me before launching himself into a tirade about our common angelic nature — a flimsily disguised attempt at dragging me down at his level. Once again, I had to remind him of our respective positions, and that our relationship of sorts does not change the intrinsic difference in our status. He tried to reply with a silly witticism (he said that he “sauntered vaguely downwards” — it’s not worth spending a minute of my time trying to eviscerate whatever that means).

Eventually, he came to the reason why he’d asked me to meet in such a hurry. As I (presciently?) wrote this morning: he is afraid of what his side might do to him if we were discovered. This is sensible, but the solution he proposed to the problem was— blasphemous at best, desperate at worst. He asked me to procure him some Holy Water.

My mind was reeling — it still is — while he was talking nonsense (about ducks and trees, I believe, I do not listen to each and every word that he says), as he’s wont to do whenever he’s trying to hide his embarrassment. Trying — and failing: after so many centuries, I know everything there is to know about him.

We had a fight. The  _ casus belli _ was my use of the term “fraternising.” Of all things! We are soldiers on opposite sides, in a delicate balance that can’t be tipped lest we hasten the End Times! And soldiers on opposite sides helping each other, exchanging intelligence and trading favours— that’s the very definition of “fraternising”! And he should know it well: treachery is a sin, one of his side.

Our sparring of words was soon over; I spared Crowley the embarrassment of making a scene. I didn’t pay too much attention to his parting words; I believe that they were “I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel.” But truly— I don’t care; and I told him so.

I just hope that the circles in which he’s going to “fraternise” will not coincide in the least with the ones in which I’m moving — I doubt it. If that be the case, I will simply have to bear the burden of his “company” and, if necessary, thwart his wiles.

Because from this incident comes at least one relief: the Arrangement is over. I won’t have to tempt people for him again. I won’t have to trust a demon to do good deeds; and I won’t be tempted into committing evil ones.

It certainly will take some time to get used to the new state of things; but it is clearly for the best. As I was walking back from St James’s, I was painfully aware of the many sins that I’ve committed because of this “Arrangement”. They all weigh on my conscience— and what good came from them, except the thrill of feeling a little naughty? Such contradiction implicit in that “little”: an angel shouldn’t be “naughty” in the least! Although I must concede that Crowley has always had the sense and (dare I say) the consideration not to ask for my help in his most grave temptings (for I have no doubt that there have been many, and I thank the Lord that I know nothing of the details!); and he’s refrained to involve me in any “job” that would’ve required an openly immoral behaviour.

It’s true that sometimes I felt that getting to know every side of humanity, especially those little weaknesses and imperfections that make your heart grow even fonder, helped me be a better angel. But this is clearly an illusion, yet another temptation: how could a demon’s deeds help an angel?

And yet, on so many occasions— my mind goes back to that time when I tempted that judge into letting that heretic go: it felt like an act of compassion, of angelic love.

My mind also goes back to the night when we discussed that assignment: I try to remember what we had for dinner, and I can’t. It’s most annoying. I recall that the ale was of the best quality, and the gingerbread that we nibbled in the morning was absolutely scrumptious. I am certain that it was winter, as Crowley was shivering despite the warmth that came from the fireplace; the peculiar shape that his lips took for an instant when I gave him my coat is etched in my memory — and so is the sorrow in his voice when he told me that he’d lost it.

I get lost in memories, I fall into a pointless melancholia. Further proof that it’s time to let go of Crowley: it’s time to be an angel, and only an angel; to dedicate all of myself to carrying on my duty: it will be good for my spirit — as well as for my soul.

* * *

####  **_8th of April, 1895._ **

Why do people seem so determined to destroy themselves? Oscar has refused to escape to France, and is awaiting trial — and we all know how it will end. Robbie is staying as well — I spent a night trying to convince him not to make the same mistake, but to no avail.

I long for Crowley’s company. That’s the plain truth. I keep on thinking that he is the only being who could help me in these troubled times. I never noticed how much I valued his friendship — and now it feels like it’s too late.

I find some solace in the thought that the end of our Arrangement will protect him from himself — or from his side — better than any Holy Water could; but at times it’s truly hard to bear the thought of a world without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss Ada Gordon, future Lady Ada Lovelace, was the daughter of the poet and notorious libertine Lord George Gordon Byron. She met the Victorian genius-engineer Mr Charles Babbage at a party in 1833; his work inspired her to invent the idea of computers. I’ll leave it to you (and Crowley) to debate whether the consequences were good or not. I wrote [another fic set on that night:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329426) you can find it here; it has a slightly different take on the Ineffable Husbands.
> 
> Aziraphale visits St Anne’s Church in Soho because it’s a beautiful church and it’s very close to the bookshop, not because he has particular ties with the Church of England. Faith and religion can be two very different things.
> 
> “Oscar” is Oscar Wilde, who was arrested on 6th April 1895 for “gross indecency” (that is, for being gay). His former lover and best friend Robert Ross saved his manuscripts and stood by him for the rest of his life — unlike the man who was the cause of Wilde’s downfall, Lord Alfred Douglas. In the (beautiful) film Wilde, Robbie Ross is played by none other than Michael Sheen.
> 
> Next chapter: the fallout of Aziraphale and Crowley’s fight, and a church in London during the Blitz...


	5. A Real Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a revelation, but he decides not to share it with Crowley.
> 
> (Now with art of the amazing Kai!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: it’s not necessary to understand what’s going on, but I chose to set the last scene on a tragic day in the history of queer people in the UK. There’s something about it in the endnotes; it’s fundamentally my way to honour the memory of the queers that came before me. We’ve come a long way, but it’s been a hard and painful journey.
> 
> Thank you to [nemnemz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemnemz) for the beta!

####  **From the Journal of P’ty Aziraphale**

####  **_October 15th, 1941._**

Another night of bombings. The Head Office still hasn’t given me any official assignment, so I simply try to alleviate the sufferings of the people around me with minor acts of kindness. Hard to believe, however, that miracling a thermos of hot tea for a lady whose home has just been reduced to a pile of rubble can change anything. I look at my beloved London, and it feels as if the End Times had come, but Heaven hadn’t made the world any better (as strange, even blasphemous, as such a notion may sound).

Sometimes I look for comfort going for a walk in the Royal Parks, but to no avail. It’s as if St James’s Park has turned into a desert, barren and empty except for a shadow: an angel and a demon quarrelling near the pond.

I wonder where Crowley is. I fear that he might have obtained that Water by other means: but which ones would be at his disposal? And why would he need it, if our fight ended our Arrangement? 

* * *

####  **_December 18th, 1941, 10:40._ **

I was hoping to contribute to the war effort with more than just miracling cups of tea, and finally my prayers have been answered! I will have a chance to help, to be part of something greater and to put what I’ve learned over so many centuries to good use. I’ve been told that both my knowledge of prophecy books and my genial demeanour are held in high esteem in some quarters...

* * *

####  **_December 21st, 1941, 00:45._ **

I believe that a dispassionate account of tonight’s events is in order. 

I arrived at St Anne at 9pm sharp, as planned. I handed in the books to Mssrs Harmony and Glosier, and I waited for Capt Montgomery. Everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly (I dare to think that all those lessons with Maskelyne have honed my acting skills). 

Unfortunately, to my great dismay, “Capt Montgomery” revealed herself to be Miss Greta Kleinschmidt, a German double agent! I have to confess that I was not only shocked, but a tad scared. Not only are the bureaucratic processes to obtain a new corporation frightfully boring, but I have been told that the recorporation procedures are quite painful as well.

It was then that, in the most unexpected turn of events, I was rescued by none other than Crowley. He goes by “Anthony J Crowley” now; he refused to tell me what the J stands for, but I will accept this new name, as I have to accept that my existence will be inevitably bound to his. But I get ahead of myself...

All the eyes were on my dear Crowley as he was walking down the aisle. He was absolutely dashing. He was braving the pain of walking on consecrated ground with the utmost grace, and replying to the German spies’ insults with brilliant wit. To describe his “smart” demeanour would take a whole book, so I will simply report his actions: he had already planned a daring escape for both of us by redirecting a bomb from the homes of the poor souls in the East End to St Anne. I only had to take care of shielding our corporations from the blast with an angelic miracle — or, as Crowley called it, “a real miracle”.

[ ](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/Ioffg1CzdD-K9dqTAoeYVhoWA6X1nN7FV-YTLLUWsaLHkd2L_VuipZAGVEOvNjxaRzbPv1fxu8Z9dr7wfbjeaMiab3zkeE0j8r6VVy_irAnniAX_KMjr4iLk8oskUNYBhW-tvkyf_PF7JaAoJdPlrJqn7XzFMcmIsXrnLLDLyIHE16337gTasPOmcFpIv6XThnl8H-2OWGOH2235KywtZUkpx2FsW7vxvSGnsPTuqPaa2A4gwzT3Se_iiW_IkiPEubV-jnXy_uDzQR3pD__aFD5y-TeeFPuVlfU95jLM82yurQkeMhxEgo_TjOsePK962wW033JgX5mnByE69D3AoIndtiVvnFeAmNdnTjjjBmc_VZqOQlUuKaKG-UCXoKTZ4v1vDnJ8yv5Un7CCQ4OzvebUwrb3AWPcsu2Qh4xFVf1D4u9SLdwlEN-NCaZtvI7E4AOBlRd3rtSFFUhn-XFJGj8vjSHNbfvBru50sxbrjxSC6Gaa5LnShvfaTCAXS4UEe702A4YZGwUiuP5anzPPPQyZo5ToBUx0QiYN5oYsXG90gPfDBm1Pu-d1s8GsMWWtP6T1v9qvn0zikm64mOHVdlhIvrmHqJfUzJ2Ta0cttiR86vVLin7oMYy5QyweQRkzKfIZX-JLfYCwY42UKNUGfirZqSeDn3S3hu0PP-TfnRv8gC1xnrTB1bea0AJ-BnrIzVV9=w2612-h1878-ft)

We were standing in the ruins of what was once such a beautiful church, when I realised that I had forgotten about my books. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Crowley told me that he had used one of his “demonic” miracles to save them and, almost as if he were joking about it, handed me the bag and offered to escort me back to the bookshop.

And in that moment, suddenly, I knew with perfect clarity that Crowley is in love with me, and at the same time I knew that I love him most deeply in return — more deeply than I’ve ever loved anyone in this world.

My mind is still reeling from this discovery. Logically, it’s a conundrum: a demon, who should not, by his very nature, be capable of love, loves an angel. And an angel loves him, not simply because they’ve been created as a supernatural creature of Perfect Love, but because they have “fallen in love” like a human being. Because I’ve “fallen in love”: I gather from my readings that this is the term. And truly, I feel as if I were falling: I am dizzy and speechless, and yet it’s as if I were paralysed and desperate to shout. 

[ ](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/iNnzIS4NprTi3FrKw_Gb29i39UPWBA7alY6j8NDqRGOc_cNUVQcyvDIzml14BIK9XYeNj4Akrn_aZJABSMxAlM5V7TnIdGHwapq8jjofuPza06YDG895an_KqcyLoXsyWIOaEM-jQ5KhBP59I1UU5rm06XJU1nkpCtPsl44xYTbuU-mOZiAewz2rXrFhX2-Gl0O8NNIZcNbvzg-o6q8UafW7r2_gW34xvzIK3DGW74-XE_bT4Sb8dOv7Ksuoi_aE_9ivUhmD_Yv6TKhFLal8B8Cqb8BsA7ECgeMxXNYL5dsjhiGIJDqK3gsO4Fs1nq2vrzRVJ-VYrJPeeuZSR3Bb3GqsxDV6aAXweud5i5QSRo0ZaKzah4U5dTvbWI4YCR8xnp_Dl1S0Pur62fHrfhdTmzlp3oMwRRhbytaGKnVx-1BaBYjCBuNyD-08p9gQjBWlua1-yvKaOLIcVgpHxxx_S2_O3eEye5NxyNMDuQpUzwPs2J3fbmSzcNG5bDlGA-ThoX5wCPWyV3-TrG75tXoczCMVqP8HuHqWY8I7uvOgMeWP_xF8N7wQTRljN-tWB6D1vHd7Qlu_k-3zSNrlTh6pJURLcZOzeeNlI79DWKKQz4ZSXMcmrixAzbqj5obUpPLbdENzjGSny7EgJ-FHzSjPMCoD1Hr6cS7SnQr9fzmXLlVPyE_9lgpvTSelfeZzM0eKmQDh=w2612-h1878-ft)

I cannot help but think back, to reconsider my existence. I realise that I’ve been in love with my dearest for a long time, although I cannot earnestly say for how long. Maybe it hasn’t happened in a single moment; every time I met my beloved was like a tiny drop, and now my very soul suddenly overflows. I also wonder how I could not sense Crowley’s love before tonight: is it possible that he’s loved me from the very first moment with such a pure love that it overwhelmed my angelic senses, like the light of the sun reveals the moon to be but a pallid reflection. What is certain is that I cannot go back to ignore his love, nor mine. 

And yet we have to consider the best course of action. The safest one. 

I dream of confessing my feelings. I dream of asking him to run off together (though I have no idea where we could go; in truth, I doubt that there will ever be a place for us). But we cannot afford to be reckless: it would’ve been a calamity if his side had found out about his actions in the past; if they were to find out about our hearts, that would be a complete catastrophe.

Heaven might not look too kindly on my love either. I cannot believe that the Archangels would actually hurt me, but they might not understand at first. Crowley falls outside their jurisdiction and they’d never exchange information with what they see as their eternal enemies, but I’m afraid that it would take time for Gabriel and Michael to trust him.

* * *

####  **_October 19th, 1950, 10 a.m._ **

Last night, the police raided yet another “den of iniquity” — this time, it was Auntie Edie’s club. As soon as I heard of it, I went to the police station and tried to bail her out of jail with human means, but to no avail; I therefore decided that it was a case of “ministering to the prisoners”, and managed to convince the officers with a small miracle.

I left Edie in the care of our dear Martha and her sister, and I came back to the bookshop. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I noticed a pearl white envelope on the desk: a note from Heaven. I’m transcribing it here:

_“Aziraphale, I hope you realise that your powers are a privilege and gift, not to be squandered on those who are only reaping the consequences of their Lust. If you try again to antagonise an officer of the law, I will have no choice but to issue a formal reprimand. I am sure that it will not come to that, if you value your position on Earth as much as you say. - Gabriel”_

Part of me refuses to think that I might have made a mistake. It tells me that Edie and her girls didn’t do anything wrong; they simply weren’t ashamed to show who they are.

But Gabriel’s remark about Lust strikes deep, and painfully so, as I keep on thinking about Crowley. 

It’s not just pure love: I wonder what consummating our union would feel like, and I even picture in my mind the act itself. May She forgive me, I picture the tiniest details, over and over again, and I fantasise on each of them. Which clothes of the latest fashion would he be wearing? Would he undo the buttons of my waistcoat, my tie? Would I be the one to do that? Would his body be leaning towards one gender? Would he enjoy taking me? Most of all, I dream of resting my gaze on all of his body again, the way I admired him that night at the thermae, but this time I wouldn’t keep my distance, I would hold him in my arms — he always acts so blasé, but he needs to be loved more than most, unsurprisingly, as he’s been cast away...

I almost question Her judgment! I wonder why I haven’t Fallen yet: everything seems to tell me that I am not worthy to call myself an angel or, at least, not a good one.

* * *

####  **_June 8th, 1954, 7 a.m._ **

Crowley and I were sharing a nightcap at the bookshop when we heard someone banging on the door: Fran and his new friend were trying to escape from some policemen who had nothing better to do than to harass two young boys. Crowley was nothing short of magnificent, miracling a space hidden between two bookshelves and convincing the officers to leave (and, I assume, to forget all about the incident). I don’t know what I could’ve done without him. Truth be told: I don’t know what I _would_ have done. The guidelines set in Gabriel’s note are quite strict, and I’m still trying to find a way to circumvent a few of them.

Should I be more careful? Part of me is constantly tethering on wrath — may the Lord grant me the forgiveness for which I pray to Her every day. But the injustice of this persecution, the sight of so many good people forced into hiding only because they love is painful: how can an angel, a being of Love, not be moved by it? 

Truly, sometimes one hopes for the End Times, if that is the price for a better world...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: these endnotes are not necessary to understand the fic, and they deal with lockdown and homophobic persecution. Take care. 
> 
> Yes, I wrote that bit about London during the Blitz right in the middle of the lockdown.
> 
> In our universe, St Anne’s Church in Soho was destroyed in 1940. My apologies, historians.
> 
> Leave a comment if you spot the West Side Story reference!
> 
> If Ada Lovelace was the mother of computer science, Alan Mathison Turing was its father. He also deciphered the Nazi codes during WWII, one of the factors that led to the Allies’ victory. He committed suicide on the night between the 7th and 8th June 1954, two years after having been sentenced to chemical castration for “gross indecency” (that is, again, being a gay man). In 2017, the UK Parliament passed a law to pardon all people who were convicted for “gross indecency”; it’s informally known as “Alan Turing law”.
> 
> The names and the setting in that last two scenes are a nod to two beautiful fics: [In the Pocket of the Universe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979182) by indieninja92, and [it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320123) by bibliocratic
> 
> Next chapter: it’s 1967, and an angel blesses some water...
> 
> Each one of your comments gives me life. Thank you.


	6. A Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and here comes one of my favourite lines in the tv series.
> 
> Once again, there’s a bit of queer history in the endnotes. 
> 
> And once again a thank you to nemnemz for keeping my semicolons in check!

####  **From Aziraphale’s diary**

####  **_July 28th, 1967, 6 a.m._ **

Yesterday evening Crowley called at the bookshop — again. It’s the eleventh time this month and every time it’s the same act. My dearest one enters the door that is always open to him, comes straight into the backroom, and lets himself fall on the sofa — I don’t know how that old thing hasn’t fallen apart yet: I am not using a miracle to keep it together, I hope he’s is not squandering one of his. Anyway, he barely greets me or asks about my health, and immediately moves on to review the current events. I no longer need to patronise the newsstand on Old Compton Street: I have him (as much as I can “have” him... but it doesn’t do to dwell on that). Every time, he acts as if he were about to tell me something of vital importance; but in the end we just chatter about our everyday life and the world at large, and share a drink. 

Yesterday we discussed the revision of the Sexual Offences Act, of course. It took us a bottle of Scotch to approach the subject, but it was enough for Crowley to mention it, and we were reminiscing about all the boys we’ve met who were guilty only of loving each other; about all the ones that we’ve tried to shelter from the police here in the bookshop, and all the ones we could not save; and from there it wasn’t but a small step to Oscar and Robbie (we steered clear of mentioning that dreadful boy whose name I dare not write, lest I rip and burn this notebook).

Naturally, I could not help thinking about my own predicament, especially as my own forbidden love was sitting in front of me. I hope that I managed to hide any emotion I feel for him under my honest concern about the wellbeing of others. I am becoming quite good at this game: after all, it’s just another sleight-of-hand...

Crowley reported the Act as “one of his”, arguing that the decriminalisation will give him more opportunities to tempt humans, and he’s hoping to get a commendation; but he says that, in truth, tempting is always easier when people live in fear. He had the cheek to ask me what I am going to say to Head Office, and what Sandalphon thinks of the Act; I made it clear that it’s no laughing matter (I will report as little and as matter-of-factly as possible, of course. Of late, it seems to me that Archangels don’t care very much about the life of the souls here on Earth, only of whether they can count them as a gain or a loss on their ledger. But, after all, it is my task and my honour to care about such things, not theirs.)

Eventually, we drank two more bottles before Crowley left at dawn. His face looked grave; but if he believes that his love is hopeless, the topic of our conversation must have been a heavier cross to bear for him than for me.

* * *

####  **_July 28th, 1967, 3 p.m._ **

I found out what Crowley is hiding, and it’s worse than I could ever imagine. 

I was having lunch at Jon’s coffeehouse, and he told me that yesterday night my beloved was there, got drunk and kept on rambling — about stealing Holy Water from a church. He was even looking for accomplices to carry on this terrible plan.

He is tempting people into sacrilegious theft. I should be furious, I should smite him with all the might of the Divine Wrath. And yet, all I can think of is his safety. Maybe — 

No. There are words that should not even be thought.

* * *

####  **_July 29th, 1967, 5 p.m._ **

Day spent in prayer, wondering what to do, looking for a sign.

* * *

####  **_July 29th, 1967, 6:30 p.m._ **

May the Lord forgive me.

* * *

####  **_July 30th, 1967, 1 a.m._ **

I did it. I gave my beloved a weapon that he could use to kill himself, and I can only pray to Her that he won’t go through with it. 

He didn’t notice the tartan on the bottle, or at least he didn’t remark on it. I hope that, should he think of committing a desperate gesture, those colours will remind him that losing him would destroy me as well: because, as much as I tell myself that his well-being comes first, my selfish fear of being left alone is overwhelming.

And in this hope (or is it Pride?) I committed a desperate gesture as well: I confessed that I love him, and that I know of his love for me. 

I didn’t mention the word “love” out loud, of course; it felt tactless, at such a delicate moment. But I refused to hide my heart’s deepest desire: to spend my days at his side, to share the joys of this world with him. And he understood the meaning of my words, so much that he offered to take me “anywhere I wanted to go.” 

I was terrified, and he was too. Even his usual façade of self-assuredness was slipping — his jokes were gone, his voice was shaking. I felt his gaze on every movement I made, though whenever I dared to glance at him I could perceive that he averted his eyes, as if it weren’t enough to keep them hidden behind those dark lenses. I could not help thinking of how Eve must have felt in the Garden, except that Crowley was tempting me with the best of intentions. 

But we all know what is paved with good intentions. 

I refused. 

He looked utterly wretched, and I realised that I had to give him a reason not to use the Water on himself. I could barely think, as felt my heart breaking (which is, of course, nothing of consequence in the end), so I just promised him that when we will no longer have to be enemies, we will have a celebration. I think I said that “when all of this is over, we could go for a picnic” — or something to that effect. 

I pray that the Lord will forgive me this lie. Because it is a lie: I don’t see how we could ever escape our roles in this game of chess played by forces greater than ourselves. Our sides have been chosen long ago; and we didn’t nor we will ever have any saying in the matter.

In the end, I mumbled something about “going too fast” — I felt that plausible deniability was necessary, in case he would ever feel the need to mention this terrible night again — and I all but ran away.

* * *

####  **_July 30th, 1967, 12 p.m._ **

Is it too much to hope that She’s looking kindly on Crowley and myself? I was afraid that my blessing of that Holy Water had attracted too much attention; when this morning I found a note from Heaven on my desk, I began rehearsing my defence even as I was opening the envelope. But the note was just a formality: the standard receipt, “We hereby record that the Principality Aziraphale blesses a small quantity of Holy Water, for personal use.” 

My heart still trembles at those three words, “a small quantity”: even a drop could be too much, if it destroyed my beloved. And those two more, “personal use”: as if Crowley and I were one, united into something more than just him and me. Still, it’s a relief to know that Heaven doesn’t suspect anything about Crowley and me: while my conscience is clean, I’d rather not be forced to explain the details of our peculiar relationship to the Archangels.

* * *

####  **_January 2nd, 1980, 12 p.m._ **

It’s taken me a day to fully recover from the most pleasant celebration of the New Year, and of the New Decade, with my dearest Crowley, but I don’t regret anything that happened, not even falling asleep before sobering up: waking up Crowley while bringing him a cup of tea is almost a dream of a shared life together, a most precious stolen moment in which I can glimpse what an impossible marriage could look like. 

To be fair, nothing exceptional happened: we simply chattered away, listened to some music on my gramophone, drunk quite a lot of champagne, and, as usual, I nibbled something as well (a  _ terrine de canard aux figues, _ a delightful aspic with salmon, a few sides, a spread of cheese and crackers with some scrumptious quince jelly, an assortment of desserts), while my dear one just looked at me with an amused expression of sorts. I think he’s realised that for me good food is not just a pleasure per se, but also a kind of compensation for other sensual gratifications that I dare not ask for. I wonder if he’d be amenable to — but we’re already risking too much by being together, silently acknowledging our feelings. 

* * *

####  **_June 1st, 1990, 3 p.m._ **

Once again, my beloved Crowley manages to lift my spirit with an unexpected gift: this time, it was the latest book written by that friend of his (“not GK, the one with the hat”) and a younger gentleman. It is, indeed, quite a good story, and told in a most brilliant style. 

Only one slightly unfortunate note: my dearest one mumbled — but somehow very clearly — a request to report any similarity I might see between the protagonists of the book and the two of us. I wish I could answer the question that he actually asked, and tell him that one day someone will allow us a happy ending; I’ll just notice that a passion for musical theatre and appreciating the pleasure of a good manicure are not enough to say that a character is “absolutely like me”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is Jon Vickers-Jones, the assistant manager at the 2i’s Coffee Bar on Old Compton Street. Do you think that Crowley knows that Aziraphale has lunch there? Was Crowley actually drunk when he told Jon about his plan? Let me know your theories in the comments!
> 
> As for God, my theory is that She ships the Ineffable Husbands.
> 
> Queer history! The Sexual Offences Act 1967 legalised homosexual acts between men over the age of 21, as long as they were in private and consensual (the line in Good Omens about “mutually consenting bycycle repairmen” comes from that).
> 
> “GK” is Gilbert Keith Chesterton. I’ll leave you to guess who the friend with the hat and the younger gentleman are.
> 
> Aziraphale’s right, it’s not enough to love musical theatre and appreciate the pleasure of a good manicure to identify with him. But it helps.
> 
> Next time: an Antichrist is born, the End Times are upon us, an angel and a demon find a new use for the table in the back room.


	7. Not To Do What I'm Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tempts Aziraphale. 
> 
> Aziraphale tempts Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. There was a scene that didn’t want to play out: thank you to Lurlur and lyricswritesprose for the help there, and thank you once more to my beta nemnemz her support and comments.

####  **From Aziraphale’s diary**

####  _**Saturday, 23rd August 2008, 11 a.m.** _

I am afraid that I have rushed into something that’s beyond my control. Is it possible that I’ve been tempted by Crowley? No, my angelic nature shields me from such a thing. As I actually reminded my dearest friend, I can’t not do what I’m told, and I am sure that what I’m told is what most runs contrary to the Enemy’s schemes.

Granted: I was a bit tipsy, since after a delightful lunch at the Ritz we had at least half a dozen bottles of that 1920 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and I hope that my behaviour was not inappropriate. Crowley’s act was — well, Crowley is Crowley. Always a bit melodramatic. I have a vague memory of him shouting something about “eternity” and a little bird. I also recall something about dolphins as a metonymy for the whole of the Creation.

In any case, it’s done — a little Arrangement-within-the-Arrangement. I will plan accordingly, and I am sure that everything will work out for the best.

* * *

####  _ Monday, 21st August 2017, 8 p.m. _

How time flies — it’s our little boy’s ninth birthday! I say “our” little boy as I believe that we truly are united in being his spiritual parents. Nonetheless,I think that I will be successful in preventing him to become Hell Incarnate, despite Crowley’s cunning tricks — it’s true that he smashed the little build-your-own-angel set that I bought him, but he also ran Crowley’s go-kart into the liquor cabinet (we both reported that as a success to our head offices, as it caused a fight between Mr and Mrs Dowling, but it also disrupted Mr Dowling’s business meeting with a dictator).

Now I’m waiting for my dearest one in this tiny cottage on the edge of the grounds that’s been my home for the past four years. I’ve miracled a couple of good bottles from the bookshop, and we’re going to celebrate the anniversary of our plan. I expect it to be a pleasant night: the only limit I’m giving myself is not to act on some of my most carnal — but I should move on, as I’ve written many times in these pages, I must try to banish any thought of that nature.

Crowley should be tucking our boy in bed right now; it’s moving to see how the little one thinks the world of him. Yet it’s not surprising: that demon was made to be loved, and his child-rearing talents are a force to be reckoned with. The other day, he taught the Warlock how to bake scones; they brought me some too, they were truly delicious, better than the ones at the Ritz...

* * *

####  **_Thursday, 22nd August 2019, 11 a.m._ **

The End Times are upon us. This morning the Most Holy Archangel Gabriel and the Holy Archangel Sandalphon called at the bookshop and confirmed that the Four Horsemen are being summoned. Yesterday evening

* * *

Aziraphale puts down his pen. 

_ Yesterday evening.  _ Even without a perfect angelic memory, he would remember everything.

There’s the two of them sitting at the table. They’re bickering in their usual way, the way they use to remind each other of six thousand years of in-jokes.

There’s Crowley who’s scared. Terrified, even. 

_ “We’re doomed.” _

There’s his own attempt at being witty.

_ “Well, then. Welcome to the End Times.” _

There’s scotch. All the scotch that’s in the decanter, and then some. They reminisce. 

There’s six thousand years of memories in five bottles, and one more bottle for eleven years of an impossible plan.

“You tempted me, you sly serpent. First you told me to save dolphins, then you told me not to give up sushi.” He suddenly notices a contradiction. “Which, now that I think about it...” 

Crowley interrupts the slippery slope towards veganism by pointing his finger somewhere over Aziraphale’s head. “Want to order, angel? Sushi, I mean. The place on Old Compton Street. Still open. Or, well. Anyway. I can make it open. For you. You know?”

“I know you can.”

“So?”

Aziraphale is drunk. Drunker than he’s ever been, on Scotch and Apocalypse. He feels himself swaying in his chair, or maybe it’s just his heartbeat.

“I’m not hungry.  _ Not for sushi.” _

“That’s a first.”

_ Welcome to the End Times. _

“You know what I mean, Crowley.”

Crowley looks like a serpent who’s tried to mesmerise a prey and has found himself charmed into standing perfectly still. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he’d kept his glasses on. But he’d taken them off when, despite revisiting every moment of their life together, they’d conspicuously forgotten to mention a thermos of Holy Water and a night in 1967.

Aziraphale has always been too proud to beg. But it’s the End of the World. 

“You know what I mean, Crowley. Just as you knew what I meant that night.”

Crowley just stares. Sighs. Blinks exactly once.

_ Pride be damned. _

“Crowley _ , please. _ You knew what I meant.” With a flourish of his hand, Aziraphale reenacts the panto dame of himself.  _ “Get thee behind me, foul fiend!” _

He sounds as if he’s mocking Crowley, but he’s only mocking himself, and they both know him.

“Angel, you’re drunk.” 

_ Pride be damned, _ indeed.

“Crowley. Please. Just...”

_ “Sober up. _ We both should. We do it together.”

They do.

They look into each other’s eyes.

They nod.

Then.

Aziraphale opens his mouth in a silent prayer that Crowley can hear. That Crowley answers, as he’s always answered his angel’s prayers.

Then.

The chairs are upturned, and there’s his back against the door of the back room. Crowley’s devouring him, starting from his lips. 

There are Crowley’s hands caressing his shoulders, down his arms, and back, holding him closer and closer. 

There’s a keening sound from his lips.

Then.

Crowley’s caresses are getting rougher. 

They inhale the smell of the scotch, but it’s on each other that they’re getting drunk.

“Tell me what you want, angel.”

_ How can I answer if there’s no air in my lungs? _

“You know  _ exactly _ what I want.”

“I won’t do anything if you don’t say it, angel.”

Aziraphale misses the Dutch courage. He makes do with a bit of despair.

“I want you to take me. To  _ fuck _ me.” 

“You want me to  _ fuck  _ you. As simple as that.”

“Yes, I... as simple as that.”

Crowley sounds unfazed as he just says, “Fine.”

For a moment, the word hangs in the four inches between them. Then once again, that word:  _ fine.  _ Once again, it sounds like a simple matter of fact; but there’s a trace of amusement. 

_ “Fine. _ Is the sofa comfortable enough, or do you prefer to go upstairs?”

Aziraphale tries to match Crowley’s tone. Not cold, no, Lord forbid. They are friends, always have been, always will be. And he loves Crowley. He would never want to cause him any harm. Alsohe has from reputable sources that “angry sex”, as they say, is not as exciting as some novels make it sound. 

This must not be anything more than a pleasure; that it should be something to...  _ how do people say nowadays? Kick off the bucket list? _ A sushi he’s never tried:  _ yes, that’s it. _ The Apocalypse is upon them: there’s no room for romance, even less room for heartbreak. 

So he tries to sound as pragmatic as Crowley. Maybe he fails. He tries not to care. 

“The bed is full of books. And before you ask, no, I’d rather not miracle them elsewhere,  _ I have a system...”  _

“The sofa, then?”

He could walk back. He knows it. 

Instead, he kisses Crowley; opens his mouth, welcomes Crowley’s tongue while he undoes the serpent-shaped buckle of his belt. Crowley makes short work of the buttons of his waistcoat, leaves the shirt be. There’s no actual need to remove it. The bowtie is untouched, as the same principle applies.

The sofa is not uncomfortable. 

As for the sex — they know each other well enough to guess the other’s desires. 

Crowley knows how much Aziraphale cares for his clothes, and he knows better than miracling his trousers away, taking his time to undo each button of those light tan trousers in a playful challenge:  _ now I’m the one who’s savouring the moment, not to mention the rest of you — how do you like that, angel?  _

Aziraphale remembers all the times Crowley’s mentioned how he likes to keep his hair long because of the weight, and tugging it slightly elicits the reaction he hoped, that is, to make him drop on his knees.

Crowley has spent six thousand years watching Aziraphale wiggling his buttocks, and he knows exactly what to do with those perfect cheeks — and with everything of that soft body as well.

Aziraphale knows that he can ask anything of Crowley, and so he asks for permission over and over again, as if he were treading softly and reverently into a library or a cathedral. With each  _ yes  _ he goes a bit further, takes a little more: a soft bite of Crowley’s lips, a taste of his tongue; their bodies move closer to becoming one, there’s a little more friction. He whispers, “My turn, now,” and he’s suddenly on top, moving Crowley’s scarf and shirt out of the way, kissing his chest for every month of the centuries they spent silently loving each other.

They smile as much as they sigh and moan.

Eventually, they find themselves breathless but satisfied, caught into each other’s arms and in a position that puts their bodies in contact with all the least comfortable parts of the sofa.

Aziraphale sighs as he disentagles himself from Crowley’s legs and slowly puts his clothes back on. 

“I’m glad we sobered up before... well.  _ Before. _ Ethical implications aside, I have the nagging feeling that I can become quite...” He tugs down his waistcoat and tries to be dignified while he’s half-apologising — which is not easy, since he’s apologising mostly to himself. “I suppose, I can be quite maudlin when I’m drunk, and being in that state would’ve made our... would you find the term  _ ‘intercourse’ _ offensive?”

Crowley shrugs as he fastens his belt. Aziraphale takes it as a “no”, and moves on. 

“Anyway, it would have been quite different, and not for the better. What I mean...” He can feel that his cheeks are blushing, despite himself, or maybe because of that. Finally, he almost blurts out, “I feel that I should really thank you, my dear.”

“My pleasure, angel,” Crowley replies, putting his glasses back on.

Aziraphale fidgets with his ring. “I hope that I was not too... erm... forward.”

“Absolutely not. I mean, nice temptation with that  _ “fuck me”, _ but you had my enthusiastic consent  _ way _ before that.”

_ Nice temptation. Well, I guess I deserved that.  _

There’s something that looks like  _ “I’m sorry, that was low” _ on Crowley’s face, but all he says is, “So, angel, about that sushi?” 

There’s sushi. The sushi is good. 

Talking through the night is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There actually is a very good sushi place in Old Compton Street: it’s called Eat Tokyo, and it makes an appearance in [Soho, a wonderful human AU by Lurlur that you should go and read now.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578054)
> 
> The idea of “sushi with friction” comes [from spatscolombo in this Tumblr post.](https://thegoodomensdumpster.tumblr.com/post/186603069502/redfacesmiley-tinsnip-spatscolombo)
> 
> Next chapter: Aziraphale makes a decision. It’s not the right one.

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at <https://ednav.tumblr.com/>
> 
> If you need some soft fluff after all the angst, here’s [_Theory and Practice of Making Out with a Demon_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361584). 
> 
> If you’ve liked the journal format, you might enjoy my older fic [_Spying Omens_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414189): there are office memos, chats, 6000 years of watching our Ineffable Slow Burn, and a cat.


End file.
